


Sonance

by death_frisbee



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Enemies to Friends, Gen, Marco de la Cruz - Freeform, Minor Bullying, Not as fun as Miguel thought, Should be fun!, Summer Camp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-10
Updated: 2018-04-10
Packaged: 2019-04-20 23:38:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14272062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/death_frisbee/pseuds/death_frisbee
Summary: The summer after the music ban is lifted from the Rivera family, Miguel gets the chance of a lifetime--spending two weeks at one of Mexico's most exclusive music conservatories for their summer music program. It should be exciting, but between the stress of his newfound fame and being constantly mocked by that Marco kid, it's not as fun as he thought.But a Rivera's nothing if not stubborn, and Miguel's determined to show everyone else that he's a musician, even if it means standing up to Ernesto de la Cruz's great-great-grandson.





	Sonance

**Author's Note:**

> I've honestly been tossing around the idea of doing something with Marco de la Cruz (Veracruz in this) for the longest time, so I finally just sat down and did it. It was SUPER fun to write--even if it did get way longer than I anticipated--and I hope you guys enjoy this one-shot!

                There were a lot of times in his life that Miguel was pretty sure he was dreaming. Until now, the most “I must be dreaming” moment he’d had was a few months ago, when he found himself surrounded by skeletons on Día de los Muertos. But here, standing on the front lawn of one of the best musical conservatories in México…well, his arm was probably covered in bruises from all the pinches he’d been giving himself to make sure he was awake.

                “Estás bien, mijo?”

                He was jolted back into believing that this _was_ real life as he felt his papá’s hands rest on his shoulders, a warm smile on his face. Miguel returned it with a quiet nod, though his attention drifted as he saw a few other kids with various instrument cases walk by. His grin brightened, and he quickly grabbed Enrique’s arm to tug him along.

                “Registration’s this way, come on!”

                Each summer, the conservatory hosted a summer program for young musicians. Teenagers from all over México came in for workshops, lectures with world-class musicians, and just a place to meet other enthusiastic music lovers. Miguel had known about it, of course—his secundaria had flyers for it all over—but he’d _never_ thought he’d get the chance to actually _go_ to it.

                As he and Enrique got in line for registration, he couldn’t help bouncing on the balls of his feet in excitement, adjusting and re-adjusting his grip on his guitar case.  He looked up as Enrique set his hand on his shoulder again, brow creased slightly.

                “It’s not too long, you know. Just two weeks.”

                “I know,” Miguel said brightly.

                “And if you get homesick, you can call us at _any_ time.”

                “I _know_ , Papá.”

                Enrique gave a little laugh. “Okay, okay. Just…you’ve never been away for so long and…”

                “Next!”

                Miguel hopped forward, a big grin on his face. The woman on the other side of the registration table returned it before looking down at her sheet. “Name, please?”

                “Miguel Rivera!”

                A hush went through the busy register area once he said his name, and Miguel was acutely aware of dozens of eyes suddenly locked on him. He swallowed, once again adjusting his grip on the guitar case as he looked up at the registrar. Her eyebrows rose, and she smiled.

                “So I get the honor of registering Héctor Rivera’s great-great-grandson,” she hummed as she filled out the form, chuckling a bit as Miguel’s bright grin returned. “Well, I’ll need his great-grandson to sign here,” she said, pushing a sheet of paper toward Enrique, who signed. “Y allá vamos, you’re all set!” She handed Miguel a little packet of papers. “You’ll be rooming in Jacaranda Hall, room 248. I hope you have an excellent time, Miguel.”

                “Gracias!” Miguel held up the packet to show his papá and pointed at a sign that had an arrow below “Jacaranda Hall”. “It’s right down this way! _Vamanos!_ ”

                “Slow down, Miguel! Remember who’s carrying your suitcase,” Enrique laughed as he followed his son.

                Miguel giggled a bit and slowed, still riding on the wave of joy from _being here_. As he waited for his papá to take a glance at the map from Miguel’s packet, though, a bit of discomfort rose up as he was once again aware of several sets of eyes staring at him and several voices obviously whispering about him. He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised; he and the family had been doing everything they could to prove that Papá Héctor was the true writer of all of Ernesto de la Cruz’s songs. The family had been outrageously busy finding evidence to prove their case, and Abuelita had angrily hung up on reporter after reporter that had been wanting to interview the family—particularly Miguel, what with how vocal he’d been in getting Papá Héctor the attention he deserved—since Día de los Muertos. But even with all the work and stress, it had been _so_ validating, seeing people believe him and do what they could to bring Papá Héctor’s memory forward, where it belonged.

                But he’d only seen that validation from afar. Santa Cecilia was so small, so removed from everything. He wasn’t some crusader trying to right wrongs back home; aside from a few questions about his great-great-grandfather, no one treated him any differently.

So this was…weird. 

                But so what if people stared at him? He was still here for the Summer Music Program, and he was going to learn _so much,_ no matter whether people stared at him or not! And he’d be that much closer to being the musician he always wa—

                “Mira, Marco. _That’s_ Miguel Rivera.”

                He turned as he heard his name whispered behind him. Two boys were behind him—one with a small square case and the other with a guitar case. The guitarist’s golden brown eyes widened as he saw Miguel, only to quickly narrow into the coldest look anyone had ever sent his way. He put on a smirk, and something about it made Miguel’s stomach twist.

                “They let _anyone_ into this program now, don’t they?” he said, just loud enough for Miguel to hear. Miguel felt frozen in place as another cold glare was sent his way before the guitarist—Marco, apparently—turned and whistled for the other boy to follow him.

                Miguel stayed put for a moment, a strange wave of goosebumps prickling over his arms. Even aside from the boy’s meanness, there was something… _off_. Something he’d seen before, but where?

                “Miguel?”

                He shook his head as Enrique said his name, already several steps ahead. Miguel shook his head and followed after him. Well, it wasn’t anything to worry about. There were tons of people at this program, he didn’t need to worry about one randomly rude kid.

~

                “So you’re _really_ Héctor Rivera’s great-great-grandson?”

                “Sí.”

                “And he really wrote _all_ of De la Cruz’s songs?”

                “Well, all the original stuff. He sang some stuff written for his movies by other people.”

                “ _Wow._ ”

                After a prolonged goodbye with his papá—and a promise to call every couple days to let them know how he was doing—Miguel had set out to find his roommates in the common area of the hall. It’d taken a bit of asking around—and a lot of “Aren’t you _Miguel Rivera_?”s—but he’d finally found the two boys he’d be rooming with: Javier and Gabriel Roca. They were a pair of brothers—two years apart—who ran a music channel on YouTube, with Javi on piano and Gabi on the flute. It wasn’t popular yet, but they were _sure_ it would be soon enough. Honestly, they kind of reminded Miguel of Tío Oscar and Tío Felipe.

                They were, of course, completely struck by the fact they were rooming with _Miguel Rivera_ , but after the initial questioning about Papá Héctor and De la Cruz, their conversation turned toward more pressing matters, such as what to expect for the next few weeks (Javi had already been having this conversation with Gabi before Miguel had shown up; he’d been coming to the summer program for two years now, so he knew the routine.)

                “If the schedule’s right—and it’s not _always_ right—we should be having the _best_ speaker on Wednesday,” he said as Miguel and Gabi listened intently. “He’s the conductor for the New Yor— _oye,_ look who’s here.”

                Miguel and Gabi turned, and Gabi let out a quick gasp. “Is _that_ …”

                “It is.”

                “But I thought he wasn’t coming this year!”

                “Apparently we were wrong. Though I bet he’s not doing so well, what with _el fénix_ here,” Javi said, giving Miguel’s shoulder a little push. “He probably didn’t have anywhere else to go.”

                Miguel frowned at the two brothers. “Who?”

                Gabi’s eyes widened. “You don’t _know_?”

                “Of course he doesn’t know,” Javi said, shaking his head. “Miguel _just_ said he’s never left Santa Cecilia.” He turned Miguel to look toward the middle of the room, where a couple boys had just entered. Miguel’s brow furrowed. Was that…the boy from earlier? But now he was all smiles as he talked to everyone, face open and friendly instead of glowering.

                “Ooh, he’s gonna _hate_ you, Miguel,” Javi said as he let go of Miguel’s shoulders.

                “I think he already does,” he mumbled back. “Who even is he?”

                “That’s _Marco Veracruz_. He’s like, _musical royalty_ ,” Gabi said.

                “He’s played _all over_ the country.”

                “I hear they even had him go to _America_ for a Selena tribute concert.”

                “ _Every_ musician in El Distrito knows about Marco Veracruz. He’s played with most of them.”

                “ _He was on ‘México Tiene Talento’ as a guest judge!_ ”

                “And you know _why_ he’s so famous?” Javi asked in a low voice. Miguel shook his head. “Because he’s _Ernesto de la Cruz_ ’s great-great-grandson.”

                Miguel’s stomach plummeted to his feet. _Oh._ Dios, that _would_ explain a lot. He swallowed hard as he watched the other boy. Now that he knew, there wasn’t any doubt that Marco was Ernesto’s relative; he’d seen that same easy, carefully crafted openness just a few months before from the man himself.

Well, before he’d been thrown into a pit.

                He froze as Marco looked up, their eyes meeting each other dead on. There was the tiniest shift in his face, a coldness that spread through it, but just for a second before he returned to joking with the people around him.

                “Oof, yeah, definitely hates you,” Gabi said.

                “But you’ve got us! And besides, we all know where the _real_ talent went,” Javi added, elbowing Miguel’s side. Miguel managed a little smile at that, but looked back at Marco. He’d never had anyone _hate_ him before.

                Well. He could just keep his distance. Then they wouldn’t bother each other…

~

                …except that it was hard to keep his distance when they had _every_ guitar workshop together. He tried his best to focus on his music, but between Marco’s snide little laughs when he messed up a note and the instructors’ cooing over him, it was hard to concentrate.

                “Está bien,” Maestra Nena assured as he apologized for playing the wrong note. “You’re still learning, it takes time. That was a _very_ good attempt, Miguel.”

                Miguel fought rolling his eyes. They were four days into the program—almost halfway through—and he was quickly realizing that, when he wasn’t playing by ear, he was _way_ behind everyone else. Granted, that wasn’t his fault; he’d only just started taking actual lessons after Día de los Muertos. But it was still _frustrating_ , especially when every mistake was met with a snicker and a smug smirk from Marco.

                Honestly, though, he’d take a _million_ smirks if it meant someone actually told him how to get better. The instructors so far were really friendly, but they all only gave him positive feedback. He’d asked Teresa, the girl who’d been sitting beside him, for some help after class the first day, and she’d just said, “Oh, but I heard you play! You don’t need my help; the sight-reading comes with practice. But if you want to talk about any music— _especially_ your great-great-grandpa’s!—I’d be happy to!”

                He wasn’t dumb. He knew exactly why everyone was treating him like this; it was the same reason why Marco was being so mean.

                “You seriously can’t tell an F from a C? And here everyone’s saying _Rivera_ was the talented one,” Marco said, pausing to watch Miguel was putting his guitar away. Miguel felt his ears burn as he snapped his case shut.

                “I’m still learning,” he muttered sharply, then glanced back as Marco let out a little laugh.

                “You actually _believe_ what these instructors are saying?” His smile abruptly died, amber eyes fixing hard on Miguel’s. “If you can’t even manage easy music like this, you don’t _deserve_ to be here.”

                “I _do_ deserve to be here!” Miguel snapped, pulling himself to his full height. “I’m a _musician_ , just like you are.”

                Marco’s eyebrows rose. “Oh? You’re a musician like _I_ am? Have you been taking lessons since you were three?”

                “No, but…”

                “Can you play _four_ instruments?”

                “N-no…”

                “Have you gone on country-wide tours? Have you played special engagements? Have you ever even had a _live_ _audience_ outside of a pathetic little guitar recital?” When Miguel shrunk back, Marco narrowed his eyes and puffed dismissively. “Exactly. I don’t care _who_ your great-great-grandfather is. You’re not a musician. You’re just some shoemaker’s kid, and you _always_ will be.”

                Miguel felt as though the air had been sucked right out of his lungs, and he stood rooted in place as Marco walked out.

                _Just some shoemaker’s kid._

                Despite everything, Miguel had never thought about that. He’d never thought that he’d get to follow his dream and…and be _bad_ at it. But what if he was? His throat tightened, and he felt his eyes start to sting. What if…?

                _No._

                He sucked in a breath, standing up straight. He _had_ played in front of audiences—maybe they weren’t _live_ , but they were still people and they’d still listened. No, they’d _cheered_ for him.

                He _was_ a musician. Even if he didn’t have the same opportunities as the other kids here, he was a musician all the same.

~

                “He _said_ that to you?”

                “Mm.” Miguel squinted at the sheet music in front of him as he slowly plucked out the tune. He jumped as Javi slammed his hands down on his keyboard, blasting the room with a dissonant mash of notes.

                “Miguel! That’s, like, the _worst_ thing he could say to a fellow musician!”

                Gabi looked up from his place on his bunk and nodded seriously. “You can’t let him get away with that. And you _know_ he wouldn’t say it to anyone else in the program.”

                “He’s definitely got it out for _you_.”

                Miguel shrugged. “So? He’s just a bully, whatever.” He turned back to the sheet music. “I’m not gonna let him ruin my time here. _I_ know I’m a musician, and that’s what matters.”

                Both brothers groaned.

                “ _Miguel_.”

                “Ay, _Miguel._ ”

                “What?” Miguel asked with a frown. Javi and Gabi leaned forward.

                “This is about _honor._ And even forgetting the whole De la Cruz thing, Marco has a _lot_ of influence here,” Javi said in a low voice.

                “More than you,” Gabi added.

                “And if you’re on his bad side, then he’s _definitely_ going to be spreading stuff about you and your talent.”

                “But everyone knows I can pl—” Miguel started to argue, but Javi cut him off.

                “That _doesn’t matter!_ What you need to do is play his own game. You need to show _him_ up.” He sat back for a moment thinking hard, then snapped his fingers as he looked at Miguel with wide hazel eyes. “You need to _duel_ him.”

                Gabi gasped. “Do you really do those here?’

                As Javi nodded, Miguel grimaced. “ _Duel_? Like, with guns?”

                “Estás loco? No, not with guns!” Javi leaned forward to tap Miguel’s guitar. “With _this._ ”

                “It’s a tradition here,” Gabi said. “Javi’s told me all about it. If you start butting heads with someone, you have a duel.”

                “ _Everyone_ gathers in the common room, and they listen to both people play. Whoever they think played better wins the duel.”

                Gabi grinned. “Ay, can you imagine it? It’s like a centuries-long family feud!”

                “Hey, wait, it’s not…”

                “De la Cruz vs. Rivera!” Javi crowed. “A fight for the ages!”

                “We gotta tell _everyone!_ ”

                “Wait, I…” Miguel tried to stop them, but they were already on their feet.

                “We’ll meet you in the common room after you challenge him, Miguel!” Gabi called.

                “His room’s 276!” Javi shouted over his shoulder as he led the way out.

                “I…” Miguel deflated as the door shut after them. “I don’t wanna fight.”

                He sat there for a long moment, looking dejectedly at the sheet music he’d been trying to read, then let out a long sigh. This was so… _weird._ Why couldn’t he just _play_? Did there really have to be all these rivalries and _duels_?

                He _was_ a musician, yes. And he _wanted_ to play his music for the world. But…well, maybe Papá Héctor had been on to something with that whole “performing like a monkey for complete strangers” thing.

                But it wasn’t like he could say “no” to the duel with Javi and Gabi hyping it up. So he took a deep breath and got to his feet. He slung his guitar on his back and made his way down the hall to room 276. How did you even challenge someone to a duel? Was that when you hit someone in the face with a glove? What did you do when you didn’t _have_ gloves? He couldn’t use his boot, that’d be deadly. So maybe he could just…

                “ _Another_ one cancelled on us?”

                Miguel’s brow furrowed as he heard the voice through 276’s door. Was that…Marco? It had to be, but…he didn’t sound right. His voice was tight, and he almost sounded…scared. Miguel should probably leave, but he couldn’t bring himself to move from the spot.

                “Did you talk to them? Maybe they… _sí_ , Mamá, I _know_ whose fault this is, but…well, maybe if you hadn’t sent me to this stupid camp, we could negotiate better!” Marco quickly fell silent, and Miguel could just barely catch a very meek, “Lo siento, Mamá,” before another long silence. “Can we just…can we drop the De la Cruz part? I-I can play other things and—” Marco gave a hiss, like he’d burned himself, and he went silent again. “Sí. Sí. No, I understand.” He took a shaky breath. “Sí. I…one of the workshops is about to start. I’ll talk to you later. Te quiero, Mamá.”

                Miguel stayed rooted to his spot, eyes wide as he heard a few deep breaths on the other side of the door before a sharp, whispered curse. He was finally able to move as the doorknob twisted, but he couldn’t scramble away fast enough before Marco caught sight of him. For a moment, he just stared—eyes pink-rimmed and shinier than usual—then sniffed before putting on his usual glower.

                “What do _you_ want, zapaterito?” he asked, wincing as his voice broke slightly.

                Miguel swallowed. “I-I’m challenging you to a duel,” he said, the words feeling thick on his tongue. “Because you said I wasn’t a musician, and I _am._ ”  It didn’t feel right, challenging Marco when he’d clearly had a hard phone call. But what else was Miguel supposed to _do_?  

                A quick shake of the head, and Marco’s mocking look was once again fully in place. He stared hard at Miguel for a long moment, an odd, uncomfortable sharpness in his eyes as he stayed silent. Angry, desperate, _hateful_ …

                They were the exact same eyes he’d seen before he was thrown off the side of a building.

                He automatically flinched as Marco stepped forward, but he didn’t touch Miguel. Instead, he crossed his arms and looked down his nose at him.

                “I’m not gonna stop you from ruining what little reputation you have,” Marco said coldly. “You want to duel me? _Fine._ ” He put on a cold smirk. “Maybe you’ll finally get to see what actual _talent_ looks like.” He backed into his room. “I’ll meet you in the common room in ten. I already know there’s a crowd there; bet they’re really excited to see you fail.”

                Before Miguel could get any sort of retort in, Marco slammed the door shut. Miguel frowned hard at it, then stood up straight and made his way back toward the common room.

                It was _on._

~

                “ _Daaaaaamas y caaaaaballeros,_ you are about to witness _history_ tonight! It’s a duel to the flubbed note here in Jacaranda Hall, between two of the greatest legacies in Mexican music!”

                Miguel rolled his eyes at Javi’s grand introduction, though his stomach twisted as the entire packed room erupted into excited cheers. He took a deep breath as he tuned his guitar; was it rude to do a grito indoors to loosen up? He hadn’t ever thought of that.

                “Here we have newcomer Miguel Rivera! Héctor Rivera’s great-great-grandson and a music prodigy in and of himself!”

                Half the room cheered, and Miguel lifted his head to give a quick, nervous grin to them.

                “And on this side…well, he’s not here yet, but our reigning champion, the talented and charming great-great-grandson of Ernesto de la Cruz, _Marco Ver_ —”

                “I’m here,” Marco interrupted crisply, holding his guitar case in one hand and a few sheets of paper in the other. He looked up as the other half of the room cheered as he walked in. His face softened, and he gave them a wide, charming, De la Cruz grin (His, Miguel noticed, actually looked good instead of looking like he’d been hit in the face with la chancla.) before dropping down in the seat across from Miguel. The grin widened into a smirk.

                “So you know the rules, _zapaterito_ , right? Since you challenged me, _I_ get to choose the conditions.” He set his guitar case on the ground to open it. “Feel like backing out yet? You’ll look like a coward, but not an _idiot_.”

                Miguel puffed and gave a defiant strum of his guitar. “ _Pff._ No way.”

                “Bien, suit yourself.” Marco picked up a few of the pages and dropped them in front of Miguel. “We’re playing ‘Recuerdos de la Alhambra’. That shouldn’t be too hard, right?” He arched an eyebrow as he tuned his guitar. “Hope your tremolo’s up to speed.”

                Miguel’s brow creased as he took the sheets and looked it over, feeling his heart sink down to his stomach. He couldn’t even _begin_ to figure out how to play this. These were all six…sixteenth notes? All through the song? How was he supposed to—?

                He looked up with wide eyes as Marco chuckled. “What, you thought I’d give you one of De la Cruz’s greatest hits?” He smirked as he gave his guitar a strum. “Here, you play better by ear, don’t you? I’ll go first.”

                Marco settled back, adjusting his guitar in his lap, then sent a glance around the now-silent room before he looked down at the music and started to play. Miguel felt sick as Marco easily played through the song, with no hesitation as he looked at the music and maintaining the tremolo as easily as breathing.

And yet, even as he was faced with what would _definitely_ be a crushing defeat, he couldn’t help but notice that there was something almost…mechanical?...in the way Marco played. Maybe that was part of being a performer…but then, De la Cruz hadn’t looked like that when he’d played. Even if he was a fraud, there was no denying that he _enjoyed_ playing in his movies. Marco…just looked like he was going through the motions; the _notes_ were beautiful, but there was no expression, no movement, no…anything.

                Regardless, the entire room was spellbound as he played. Until…

                _Bzzzz! Bzzzz!_

                His guitar gave an ugly twang as his hands faltered, and the color drained from his face. He ignored the groans around him and looked down at his pocket, then abruptly stood up. 

                “I forfeit,” he said quickly, pulling his phone out.

                “ _What?!_ But Miguel hasn’t—” Javi started, but Marco was already heading out of the room.

                “Zapaterito wins, okay? He’s a musician, I don’t care,” Marco called over his shoulder before picking up the phone and hurrying out of the room. A silence settled across the common room, and Miguel’s brow creased. Before he could do anything, though, Javi held up his arm.

                “And so we have a winner! Miguel Rivera has dethroned Marco Veracruz!” he announced.

                Despite Javi’s enthusiasm, there was a disappointed mumble throughout the other students as they dispersed. Miguel tugged his arm away to put his guitar back in its case.

                “Well, not quite the way I thought you’d win, but still! Felicidades!” Javi said as he clapped Miguel’s shoulder. Miguel shook his head.

                “I didn’t win. He had to leave. This doesn’t count,” Miguel said as Gabi joined them.

                “So what? It’s not like you’ll need to challenge him again,” Gabi said, leaning against Miguel’s seat. “He won’t be so high and mighty after messing up in front of everyone.”

                Miguel huffed. They were missing the point _._ Obviously Marco was bothered by _something_ today, and it hadn’t been fair to challenge him, even if he _had_ brought something out that Miguel obviously couldn’t do. He clicked the case shut, then stood up.

                “I’m gonna go back to practicing,” he said, wanting to shake off the feeling of an empty victory. Javi and Gabi complained, but didn’t stop him as he walked out of the room. He slowed slightly as he passed room 276, again catching little bits of a one-sided conversation, but this time he forced himself to keep moving.

                 Maybe he could try to challenge Marco tomorrow, to get a fair fight. He’d probably lose, but…well, it’d be better than just having things _handed_ to him.

~

                “ _Estàs loco?_ ” Gabi asked as Miguel slipped his guitar over his shoulder after their lecture the next day. “Why are you challenging him _again_?”

                “You already won, Miguel! That should be enough!” Javi added. “Marco Veracruz has been taken off his high horse, and _everyone’s happy about that_.”

                “Well, _I’m_ not,” Miguel said, standing up resolutely. “You’re not a musician unless you _play_ , and I didn’t play at all yesterday. The least Marco deserves is a fair chance.”

                “No, he doesn’t!” both brothers said at once, making Miguel jump. Javi sighed as he slid an arm over Miguel’s shoulders.

                “ _Ay_ , Miguelito, I’m gonna be honest. You would have been _slaughtered_ by Marco.”

                “Even if you weren’t so bad at sight-reading,” Gabi added, shrugging as Miguel sent him a dirty look.

                “This kid’s _Ernesto de la Cruz’s_ great-great-grandson.”

                “And I’m Héctor Rivera’s!” Miguel protested.

                “That’s not the point. The _point_ is that Marco is _rich_ and _famous_ , with all sorts of musical opportunities that us normal kids can only _dream_ about.” Javi met Miguel’s eyes seriously. “He’s already got, like, _three_ legs up in life. He can deal with losing to someone for _once_.”

                “It’s not for him, it’s for _me_ ,” Miguel finally said, shrugging off Javi’s arm. “I don’t want to win by default. I want to _earn_ it.” He puffed out a sharp breath as he made his way out. “So I’m challenging him again, and if I lose, _fine!_ ”

                He stomped down the hall, now fully resolved to his idea of challenging Marco again. So what if he failed? It wasn’t like his life depended on it this time. He’d just have to get better and challenge him again, and keep challenging him until they were equals.

                He sucked in a breath as he stood in front of 276 again. This time, rather than a whispered conversation, the sounds of some woodwind instrument—a clarinet?—came from the other side. Was that one of the other instruments Marco played? Well, all that mattered now was his guitar. He knocked briskly on the door, standing up straight.

                The music stopped, and a few moments later, the door opened. Marco let out a long sigh as he waved his clarinet. “Ariana, por _Dios_ , I’m glad you’re here. Yessenia’s agent’s telling her she shouldn’t play with me in the concert but I really need…” He trailed off as he finally looked at his visitor, who was definitely _not_ Ariana.

                This time, there was no smirk, no cool glance; Miguel’s stomach twisted as Marco’s whole expression shifted into one of complete disgust.

                “Go away,” was all he said, starting to shut the door. He blinked in surprise as Miguel slammed a hand on it to keep it open.

                “I-I want to challenge you again. For real this time.”

                Marco sneered. “Oh, once wasn’t enough?”

                “It wasn’t fair for you!” Miguel stepped back as Marco let out a sharp, mocking noise that was _almost_ a laugh.

                “Oh, _now_ you care about being fair? Not when my whole family name was smeared? Not when you ruined my whole _livelihood_?”

                Miguel blinked. “What…?”

                Marco stepped back into the room, tearing a stack of papers off his corkboard and throwing them at Miguel. He only got a quick glance at them, catching several dates scratched out with “CANCELÓ” written beside them in red letters.

                “No one wants to hire a _thief’s_ family. No one wants to listen to _stolen songs_ ,” Marco snapped. “You know how hard it is to get work when _no one_ in the industry wants to associate with a Veracruz because some little _pendejo_ in the middle of nowhere said De la Cruz stole his _nobody abuelo’s_ songs? With no proof aside from some _dumb letters_?” Marco took a sharp breath, golden brown eyes shining as he glared at Miguel. “Music was my whole life. It’s all I’ve _ever known_ , and then _you_ come in and take that all away me! You can’t even play properly! You can’t even play _basic songs_ , and _I’m the fraud?_ ” His voice cracked on the last word, and he grimaced as he quickly swiped at his eyes with the heel of his hand. “I could barely even get into this stupid program after all of this, and here _you_ are acting like you’re _so generous_ by giving me another chance with a pointless duel.” He sniffed, fixing cold, hard eyes on Miguel. “I don’t want anything to do with you. You’ve already taken _everything_ from me. I don’t need your _pity_ on top of it.”

                “I—” Before Miguel could say anything, the door slammed shut. He winced and stepped back, then looked up at the door with creased brows.

                Had he…really done all that?

                No…no, that wouldn’t be _Miguel’s_ fault, right? He just wanted to everyone to know that Papá Héctor had written De la Cruz’s songs. That he shouldn’t have been forgotten. And, well, he _had_ wanted the world to know the De la Cruz was a crook.

                But he’d never thought that would hurt other people.

                Slowly, he backed away from the door and walked down the hall to his room, a sick feeling building in his stomach. How was he supposed to know that De la Cruz actually _did_ have family? How was he supposed to know they _made their living by playing his songs?_ And anyway, Javi and Gabi had said that everyone was glad to see Marco knocked down a few pegs.

                But…clearly it was a lot more than a few pegs. And he was willing to bet they hadn’t seen him cry twice in two days, either.

                _But…_

                Miguel swallowed as he reached his room and stepped in. He ignored Javi and Gabi asking him about whether Marco had accepted his challenge or not, instead setting his case down and digging in his bag for the cell phone that was _only_ supposed to be used to call home. He gave his roommates a vague assurance that he’d be back in a bit, then headed out to the common room.

                The two hours between the end of instruction and dinner were designated practice hours, which meant that just about everyone was either in class rooms or their own rooms focusing on their instruments. So, thankfully, the common room was basically empty, and the few kids in there wouldn’t be bothered by his phone call.

                Tío Berto was the one who answered, which meant he had to go through the _whole_ line-up of his family—even Manny and Benny, who could barely _talk!_ —before he finally got to the person he’d wanted to talk to the most.

                “Mamá?”

                “Sí, mijo, I’m here.”

                Miguel melted against the sofa as he heard his mamá’s gentle voice over the phone.

                “Hola, Mamá.”

                “How are you doing, mijo?” He could hear the smile in her voice as she asked, “Are you learning a lot at the camp?”

                “More than I think I’ve ever learned in my _life._ ” That got a little laugh out of her. “But, um…I have a question.”

                “Well, I can’t help you with your music.”

                “No, Mamá, not that. It’s…with someone else who’s here.” Miguel fiddled with the frayed edge of one of the sofa’s pillows. “He’s been…kinda mean to me. And I thought it was just because he didn’t like me, but it was…something I _did._ But the something wasn’t _bad_. It was good, actually! But…it’s made his life harder and…” He covered his face with his hand. “Is this making sense, Mamá?”

                Luisa was silent for a moment, then said, “So…you did something good, but you hurt this boy while doing that good thing.”

                “ _Sí._ ”

                “And…you want to make it up to him?”

                “Sí! And I tried today but that just made things _worse._ ” His brow creased as he heard his mother let out a long sigh.

                “Oh, Miguel, you’ll never be able to please everyone. It doesn’t matter how hard you try.”

                 Miguel deflated. “But…”

                “ _But_ that doesn’t mean you should give up just yet. But _maybe_ giving this boy a little space might be for the best. You both have music to focus on, after all. And if you see an opportunity to be kind, then you can decide if it’s a good moment to try again with him. Okay, mijo?”

                “Okay, Mamá.”

                He could hear her smile over the phone as she said, “It’ll work out, Miguel, don’t worry. Now, aren’t you seeing a concert at the Ollín Yoliztli tomorrow?”

                Miguel perked up. “Sí, we’re all going tomorrow night. Javi says it’s the best part of the whole camp.”

                “Well, then, you’ll have to tell us all about it on Sunday! And how are the classes going, mijo?”

                “They’re really, _really_ interesting. Did I tell you about the conductor from New York? What he had us do during his talk?”

                “I think that got lost while the phone was being passed around. Tell me all about it, Miguel.”

~

                Seeing a performance by the Orquesta Filarmónica de la Ciudad de México was the big selling point of the camp, and it was the part that _every_ student was most excited about. Not only was it amazing to go see the orchestra in person—an opportunity that quite a few students didn’t normally have—but they got to get dressed up and get dinner _on their own_ beforehand. It was like they were practically _adults._ Sure, a few of the profes and maestras hung around the main restaurants near the Ollín Yoliztli once they got off the bus, but it still _felt_ like they were on their own.

                Miguel stuck close to Javi and Gabi, who were busy arguing over which restaurant was the best, and bounced on the balls of his feet in excitement at the thought of seeing a _live concert_ by an _orchestra_. He’d listened to a few classical recordings since the music ban had been lifted, but still, he _knew_ it wouldn’t compare to hearing it played _live_.

                He stilled as he caught a glimpse of a bright blue suit out of the corner of his eye, and he glanced over to see Marco following after the boy he’d been talking to the first day of camp.

                “Ezequiel, come on! We _always_ go to the heladería before the concert.”

                Miguel noticed that Ezequiel didn’t quite meet Marco’s eyes as he responded, “I…don’t really feel like getting ice cream today. I think I’m gonna go with Juan and Cristian.”

                “But I can’t go by myself! You have to be with another person.”

                Ezequiel shrugged. “I mean, I guess you could come with us. I don’t _think_ they’d mind.”

                Marco’s face tightened, eyes wide and frustrated, before he puffed out a breath and waved his hand. “No, it’s fine. Go with your _new_ friends.” He narrowed his eyes at Ezequiel. “Maybe you can tell them how your papá doesn’t want you associating with that Veracruz boy.” He turned before Ezequiel could say anything and started walking away.

                Miguel frowned slightly, and he glanced back at Javi and Gabi—still arguing. He awkwardly grabbed his arm, debating for a long moment. His mamá _had_ said he should take an opportunity to be kind if he saw one; getting ice cream was really kind, right?

                “I, uh, I’ll meet you guys back here before the show,” he said, interrupting the argument. Both brothers turned to look at him curiously, and he gave a quick smile. “I just…I think I _really_ want some ice cream.”

                Before they could argue, he turned and followed where he’d seen Marco walk off. It didn’t take long to find the bright blue suit, and he jogged to catch up to him.

                “Oye! You’re not allowed to go off without a buddy!”

                Marco turned curiously, then groaned. “I told you to leave me alone!”

                “But you’ll get in trouble if you don’t have someone go with you.”

                Marco fixed his eyes hard on Miguel. “What, so you’re gonna _tattle_ on me?”

                “What? No, I’m gonna go with you. You’re going to the heladería, right?” At Marco’s weirded out look, Miguel gave an awkward smile and a shrug. “You were, uh, kinda loud when you were talking to your friend.”

                “He’s not my friend,” Marco said sharply, eyes narrowing again. He let out a breath, then glanced back at Miguel. He glanced away, then upwards with a long sigh before he shut his eyes. “ _Fine._ But only because this is the _only_ time I can get this.” He nodded for Miguel to follow him.

                Miguel wasn’t sure what kind of place they were about to head to; probably some incredibly fancy place, with tons of lights and fancy flavors. So he was pretty surprised when Marco silently led them a few blocks away to a tiny little heladería that wouldn’t have looked out of place back in Santa Cecilia. The door jingled as they walked in, and even though he’d brought Miguel, Marco visibly relaxed once they stepped inside. The teenage girl working behind the counter looked up, and she gave a wide smile as she saw them.

                “Hola, Marco! I thought we’d be seeing you sometime soon!” she called over the noise of the shop. “I’ll be with you in just a minute!”

                “Take your time!” Marco called back as he squeezed in line. Miguel snuck in right behind him, eyebrows raised.

                “I thought you said this is the only time you can get ice cream,” he said curiously.

                “It is.”

                “So how do they know you?”

                Marco rolled his eyes. “I do concerts and tv spots for ten months out of the year. I’m pretty recognizable,” he muttered, then looked back up at the girl and smiled. “But they’re cool about it, especially Marcela.”

                After she’d helped the others, Marcela leaned against the counter and grinned at them. “You bring your brother to the camp this year?”

                Marco frowned slightly. “I don’t have a brother.”

                Marcela pointed her scoop at Miguel. “You sure? You look a lot alike.”

                Both Miguel and Marco looked at each other, each making a face. “You’d know if I had a brother. This is just Miguel,” Marco said, shaking his head, then smiled at Marcela again. “Could I have a scoop of strawberry, please?”

                Marcela winked. “Por supuesto. And your not-brother?”

                Marco looked at Miguel and nodded a touch impatiently for him to order. “Uh…sandia picosita? Please?”

                “Ah! Your not-brother has good taste! Wait just a bit and I’ll have it ready for you.”

                Miguel started to dig in his pocket, but Marco waved him off.

                “I buy Ezequiel’s ice cream every year. She’ll wonder why I’m not buying yours,” he muttered as he pulled out his wallet.

                “You don’t have to d—”

                “Image is important, _zapaterito_. Not that you would know that.”

                “Ya está!” Marcela leaned over the counter, holding out two little cups nearly overflowing with ice cream for them. “Enjoy the concert, okay, chicos?”

                “Gracias, Marcela!” Marco chirped, setting a couple bills on the counter before he took his cup. He gave her another wave and a smile before nodding for Miguel to follow him out. Miguel glanced back at Marcela, who gave him a wave, then headed out the door.

                “She’s really nice,” he said once he’d caught up to Marco, who gave a little nod before sitting down on a low brick wall outside.

                “You can head back now,” he said shortly. “It’d be bad if the new golden boy showed up late to the concert.” Miguel’s brow creased.

                “Aren’t you coming?”

                Marco puffed out a breath, staring straight ahead as he took a bite of ice cream. “A lot of people are gonna want to talk to me. If I go in right before, I should be able to avoid it until intermission.”

                Miguel pressed his lips together, then sat down next to Marco. The other boy frowned at him around his spoon, and Miguel shrugged.

                “You need to have a buddy with you,” he said. “I don’t want you getting in trouble.”

                Marco rolled his eyes. “Ay, _dios_ , you don’t ever stop bothering people, do you?” But he didn’t argue, instead quietly going back to his ice cream. Miguel took a bite of his own. Well, he wasn’t yelling at him, so that was good. He should _probably_ leave it at that, but…well, it was _really_ awkward to just sit in silence.

                “Why can you only eat ice cream now?” he asked.

                Marco glanced at him, then back down. “It messes with my vocal cords, so I’m not allowed to have it. When I’m at home, there’s no dairy, no citrus, no chiles…”

                “Do you _eat_?”

                Marco arched an eyebrow. “Yeah, I eat,” he said defensively. “Just…not very exciting stuff. And this is the only time I’m away from my manager and my parents.” He sighed as he stabbed at his ice cream. “But maybe that’ll change now.”

                Miguel swallowed, looking down at his own sorbet with creased brows. He took a deep breath.

                “I’m sorry.”

                Marco shrugged. “I can’t really miss stuff I don’t get to have, so…”

                “I mean…I mean about everything I did. I mean…” Miguel looked up. “I’m not sorry about telling everyone about my Papá Héctor, but…but I didn’t think anyone would get _hurt._ And I _really_ didn’t think it’d get as bad as it is for you. I didn’t want that.” He looked at Marco with a pained expression. “You shouldn’t lose everything. It’s not like _you’re_ the one who stole the songs. You’re just performing them. And…and no one should have music taken away from them!”

                 Marco stared at Miguel with wide eyes, the usual coldness in his face melted away from shock. He blinked a few times; Miguel braced himself for some sort of yelling and arguing. Instead, Marco looked away, and he said something so quietly that Miguel was _sure_ he must have heard wrong.

                “I _hate_ music.”

                Miguel stared at him. “You… _what?_ You can’t hate music! You’re so…”

                “Good? Yeah, of _course_ I’m good, because I had a guitar shoved at me when I was three and I’ve _never_ been allowed to do anything else,” Marco said, bitterness filling every word. “No friends, no hobbies. Just _music_ , day in and day out.” He glared straight ahead at nothing in particular. “Do you know what that’s _like_? Being forced by your entire family into pouring your life into something you _hate_?”

                Miguel grimaced. “I, uh…well, probably better than you think.”

                Marco shook his head. “And if I weren’t related to _him_ , I could do whatever I wanted to! I-I could…I could draw or play fútbol or-or…or do _literally anything else_. I could go to _school_ and have _friends._ And now that no one wants to book us…” He swallowed hard as he looked up toward the darkening sky. “Now I don’t have _anything._ Not even music.”

                Miguel swallowed, looking down at his melting sorbet. He should tell Marco that now he could pursue those things. That now he could really find something that made him happy. But…things weren’t that easy. He had to run all through the Land of the Dead just to be able to do what made _him_ happy, and he had a feeling he _still_ had it easier than Marco did.

                Marco stood up before he could figure out what to say. “Come on. We’ll be late for the performance if we don’t get moving.” He quickly finished his ice cream as they walked back to the cultural center; Miguel followed suit. Right as they reached the center, Miguel caught sight of Javi and Gabi waving at him.

                “Oye, Miguel! We thought you got kidnapped!” Javi called as he and his brother ran over.

                “You can’t run off on us like that!” Gabi added.

                Miguel half-smiled. “I get told that a lot,” he said, then noticed the way their gaze had shifted over to Marco. He glanced up at the other boy, who shoved his hands in his pockets and was every bit as cool as he’d been for the past week.

                “Thanks for going to the heladería with me,” he said shortly, a polite smile on his face. “I owe you one. Enjoy the concert, okay?”

                “Hey, w—” Miguel was cut off by Javi tugging him back.

                “You went to the _heladería_ with him?” he hissed. “Are you _loco?_ ”

                “Did he blackmail you?” Gabi asked.

                “What? No! He didn’t have a buddy, and he’s not allowed to have ice cream the rest of the year.” Miguel tugged his arm away. “No one else would go with him.”

                “Well, _yeah_. His whole life is based on stolen songs.”

                “Songs that were stolen from _your_ great-great-grandpa,” Gabi added.

                “But seriously, agencies have been blacklisting the Veracruz family like _crazy_ this week. All anyone’s been talking about is how Yessenia dodged a bullet by not doing a duet recording with him. It’s career suicide now.”

                Miguel frowned. “Well, that’s _dumb._ It’s not like _he_ stole the music. And anyway…” He looked up as the last few people in the patio area filtered into the music hall, then puffed. “Let’s get inside. I don’t want to miss the concert; I’ve never seen a live orchestra before.”

                “You _haven’t_?”

                Javi and Gabi’s mood instantly shifted to excitement as they ushered Miguel inside. “You’ll _love_ it, Miguel. Mexico’s string section this season is _amazing._ ”

                “And the conductor almost _always_ loses his baton from how excited he gets.”

                “Seriously, you’re in for the treat of your _life._ ”

~

                The brothers weren’t lying; the concert was _amazing_. Miguel hadn’t been able to pull his eyes away for the entire performance, and he’d stayed firmly in his seat during the intermission, afraid he’d miss something if he left even for a second. It was all classical music—which Miguel had only really listened to when his guitar teacher had made him—but seeing it performed _live_ was... _unreal._ The swells and emotions and the _absolute silence_ of the audience as the music played…it was like nothing he’d ever seen before.

                It felt a little like waking up after a dream when the concert was over and it was time to go. He stayed quiet as the group walked back to the bus, ignoring Javi and Gabi’s rundown of the performance as he tried to burn the whole performance into his brain. He focused so hard on remembering it that he was in the bus and sitting down before anything from the outside world pierced through his thoughts.

                “Is it okay if I sit here?”

                Miguel blinked, only pulled out from his mental replay of the concert by the uncharacteristically quiet voice. He looked up, catching Marco nod down to the empty seat. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Javi and Gabi—peeking over the back of their seats to watch—shake their heads. He ignored them and nodded.

                “Por supuesto.”

                Marco nodded with a quick “Gracias,” then sat and settled back quietly into his seat. Miguel turned his eyes back out the window, once again lost in the performance’s replay. He sat like that for quite a while, until—long after his second repeat—Marco asked, very quietly, “Was that your first time hearing Mozart? Like, _real_ Mozart.”

                Miguel looked up, then nodded. “I’ve heard little bits on the CDs my teacher gives me, but nothing like that.”

                Marco half-smiled. “It’s completely different hearing it played live. It has more life to it.”

Miguel arched an eyebrow. “I thought you _hated_ music.”

                Marco shrugged. “Well, it’s not so bad when it’s being performed by someone else. I like Mozart. Chopin, too, and Debussey, but Mozart’s also kind fun to play.”

                “You _play_ Mozart?”

                Marco shrugged again. “On my clarinet sometimes. The first thing I learned was his ’10 Variations on ‘Unser dummer Pöbel meint’.”

                “Salud.”

                Marco rolled his eyes as Miguel laughed.

                “Okay, but why play the clarinet if you don’t like playing music?”

                Marco sighed, looking up to the roof of the bus. “It’s…look, I told you earlier. Playing music is _all_ I’m allowed to. And playing Mozart on a clarinet is about as far away from _his_ music as I’m allowed to get. And it’s…it’s not just that it’s different, but I don’t have to _perform._ ” He leaned his head back against the seat. “I’d still rather be doing something else, but…it’s not so bad.” One corner of his mouth pulled up. “And like I said, it’s kinda fun to play. And I don’t have to sing.”

                “You’d be able to eat anything you wanted if you played clarinet all the time.”

                “Right? Just being able to have ice cream more than once a year would be worth it,” Marco agreed with a little laugh. He fell silent, and Miguel once again looked out the window, absently looking at the city lights as they drove.

                “They’re gonna give you the solo.”

                Miguel blinked, then turned around and frowned at Marco. “What?”

                “In the final concert, the one all the parents come to. You’re gonna get the big solo in it,” Marco whispered. “I thought I’d warn you.”

                Miguel’s eyes widened. “Why me?”

                Marco gave a wry smile. “Publicity, mainly. They say they’ve been watching everyone through the past week to figure out who to give it to, but they know by the time sign-ups are over. I’ve gotten it every year I’ve been here, but that’d look bad this year. What’d look _good_ is giving it to you.”

                “But…but there are _tons_ of people who are a lot better than me!”

                “Are they Héctor Rivera’s great-great-grandson?” Marco asked, raising an eyebrow. “Because that’s who you are. Not Miguel Rivera, the half-decent guitar player. You’re Héctor Rivera’s relative, and they’re righting a great wrong by having you perform.” He puffed and rolled his eyes. “That’s how these people think.”

                “But…but I _can’t._ ”

                Marco puffed. “I know I was hard on you, but you’re not _terrible._ It won’t be that hard, but…”

                “No, I _can’t._ Like, I actually _can’t._ I…I can’t read music yet.”

                Marco stared at him. “You’re joking.” Miguel shook his head, and Marco’s golden brown eyes widened. “You’re _not_ joking?”

                Miguel grimaced. “I-I mean, I can a _little._ But…I just started taking lessons in November.”

                “ _What._ ”

                “It…uh, well, my family actually had…a music ban.” Marco’s dumbfounded expression didn’t change, and Miguel continued, “My Mamá Imelda started it when my Papá Héctor disappeared. So for, like, a _hundred_ years, none of us were able to listen to music or go see the mariachis in the plaza, and we _definitely_ weren’t allowed to play it. So I had to kinda sneak learning how to play before it was lifted last Día de los Muertos.”

                Marco blinked a few times. “So…what’d you do? Did you find a secret teacher or something?”

                Miguel made a face. “Uh, sort of? The, uh, the guy who runs the prendería made me a bunch of tapes of…” _Oof,_ it was hard to say this now. “…of Ernesto de la Cruz. So I’d watch them, and…that’s how I learned how to play. I just copied what he did, and then I figured out how to play his songs based on the sounds. I made my own guitar, too! Before…my abuelita smashed it.”

                “ _En serio?_ ”

                “Sí.”

                Marco blinked again, then slowly shook his head. “Wow.”

                “I know, it’s…”

                “You’re _screwed._ ” When Miguel groaned, Marco quickly added, “Uh, well, maybe they’ve figured out you suck at sight-reading and they’ll give it to someone else?”

                “You think?”

                “Not really.”

                Miguel groaned again as the bus pulled into the conservatory’s parking lot and the dozing students perked back up. He heard either Javi or Gabi jolt up mid-snore and hit the other just as the bus came to a stop. Marco hopped up to his feet.

                “Well, uh…buena suerte, Miguel.” The phrase wasn’t mocking, but it didn’t exactly inspire confidence, either. “Like I said… _maybe_ it’ll work out?”

                As he gave a wave and went to get off the bus, Javi popped his head over the back of the seat.

                “Was he giving you a hard time?” he asked, eyes narrowed. “If he did, I’ll…”

                “No! No, he, uh…he was just helping me out.” Miguel bit back a long sigh as he got to his feet and followed them out of the bus. “I…I think I’m gonna stay up for a little bit and work on my sight-reading.”

                “What? But tomorrow’s _Sunday_ , Miguel,” Gabi said as they followed him out. “You can work on it tomorrow.”

                “I just…I’m feeling really pumped after that performance, you know?” Miguel turned, gripping his arm and giving a wide smile he hoped didn’t look as stiff as it felt. “I wanna get to that level, and I can’t get there without practicing! So, uh, I’ll probably see you guys in the morning.”

                 Maybe Marco was wrong. After all, the conservatory was promoting _music._ They’d want to push someone who really had improved and did amazing things for the solo piece, right?

                _Right?_

~

                Miguel read and reread his music late into the night, and he continued reading and re-reading all through Sunday, even during his call home. He had to be ready, just in case Marco was right. By Monday, he should be better at sight-reading. By Monday, he could be ready for anything they threw at him. And, by the time Monday came around, he…

                …was just as bad at sight-reading as he’d been on Saturday. The only difference was that now he was twice as tired.

                He could barely even muster up a weak smile as the guitar instructor said she had some very exciting news and looked at him with a big grin. And, when she announced that _Miguel Rivera_ was going to be a soloist in the concert at the end of the week, it was all he could do to keep his stinging eyes from tearing up completely in frustration. He’d never wanted this. He’d just wanted to get better at playing. He didn’t want to be a…a _testament_ to how accepting the school was of different skill levels, especially if they were related to someone _famous_.

                He clenched his jaw tightly as she set the sheet music in front of him, willing himself to keep it together as he stared at the mess of notes in front of him. Could he just…say no? That’s it, he’d say no. He’d say that, even though he was very grateful for the offer, he had come to the conservatory this summer purely to work on his skills, and that there were plenty of other people who deserved the solo much more than he did.

                He took a long, steadying breath as he put his guitar away, then let it out slowly as he picked up his case and walked to the instructor. He could feel a few eyes on him as he made his way up to the instructor.

                “Ah, Maestra Nena?” he asked hesitantly. She looked up at him with a smile.

                “Do you have a question about the solo?” she asked brightly.

                “Uh, sort of. I…I really don’t think I…have the experience to pull this off.” To his surprise, Maestra Nena laughed.

                “Oh, Miguel, we’re not throwing you in _blind_.” Miguel perked up slightly, and she continued, “I was sure to pick something that fits your style. I know you lean more toward the mariachi style of playing, but flamenco’s pretty close!”

                Miguel deflated. “That’s…that’s not the problem. I can’t…” He felt his throat constrict. Why couldn’t he just say he couldn’t read sheet music? Or that it wasn’t right that a novice like him got such a big honor that should go to someone with more experience? “I can’t…”

                Maestra Nena gave him a patient smile. “I have the utmost confidence in you, Miguel,” she said kindly, giving his shoulder a squeeze. “I know your first solo can be scary, especially in front of a crowd, but you’ll be an excellent performer. It’s in your blood, after all.”

                Miguel stared at her. She…wasn’t _wrong_ , but she had no way of knowing that. He’d only performed in the Land of the Dead. She really was just assuming based on who he was related to…which was _dumb_ , because no one had even _known_ who Papá Héctor _was_ before Día de los Muertos. They didn’t know what kind of performer he was! They didn’t know anything about him, aside from that he wrote Ernesto de la Cruz’s songs!

He puffed out a breath and was about to tell her that when he heard a sharp whistle from the doorway. He turned, catching Marco in the doorway. He silently nodded for Miguel to follow him. Miguel pressed his lips together, then gave Maestra Nena a quick thank you before going to catch up to Marco.

                “I told you, didn’t I?” Marco said once he caught up. Miguel groaned.

                “This isn’t right,” he said, glaring hard at the floor.

                “Nope. It’s business.” Marco walked up to a door and knocked on it.

                “Sí?”

                “Perdóname, profe! Wrong door!” Marco called, then nodded for Miguel to keep following him. “Anyway, it’s like I told you. It looks real good to have Héctor Rivera’s descendent showcased in our concert. Good boost in ticket sales and tons of publicity.” He knocked on another door. When there was no answer, he opened it and ushered Miguel in quickly.

                Miguel frowned as he stepped into the dark room. “Uh, why are we here?” He squinted as Marco flicked on the lights.

“We need a place to practice, and I knew this room’d be empty by now. We can use it for at least an hour before we get caught,” he said as he went to grab two chairs from the wall. “Grab one of the music stands.”

                Miguel frowned, setting his case down before bringing a music stand to the center of the room. “Caught? What are we _doing?_ ”

                “ _Technically_ , we’re cheating. Let me see the music?” Miguel held out his folder, and Marco quickly took it to look over. He made a face. “It’s like they’re _trying_ to set you up to fail. Get your guitar out.”

                “Okay?” Miguel dropped down in the other seat, leaning down to open his case as Marco flipped through the pages. “Are you…gonna teach me how to read music?”

                “What do I look like, a miracle-worker?” Marco set down the music on the stand, then pulled out his own guitar. “No. I’m gonna play this song over and over, and you’re gonna learn to play it by ear. Claro?”

                Miguel blinked. “Uh…sí, claro.”

                Marco gave a sharp nod, then tapped out a four-count with his foot before starting to play. Like when he’d played for the duel, the music itself was _beautiful_. He played smoothly, without any hesitation or flubbed notes. But there was next to no expression on his face as he played, save for a slight crease between his eyebrows as he read, and no emotion in the chords he played. It was weird, seeing someone play so well and obviously not enjoying it one bit.

                When the song came to an end, he looked up at Miguel. “You think you can figure that out? It’s not that much harder from the more instrumental stuff De la Cruz did, like Vía Férrea or something like that.”

                “Vía Férrea? You know that one?”

                “I know _all_ of them. _You_ know that one?”

                “My great-great-grandpa _wrote_ it!”

                Marco waved his hand. “Then you know what I’m talking about. It’s all sounds, no hiding it with lyrics. That’s what we’ll be doing with this.” He gave his guitar a quick strum, raising an eyebrow. “You ready?”

                “ _Definitely_ ,” Miguel said with a confident grin. He strummed his guitar a couple times, then stopped. “Uh…could you play the first part again?”

                Marco obliged, and Miguel did his best to copy him. Then Marco played again, and Miguel repeated again. For the better part of an hour, they continued the cycle of play, repeat, play again, repeat again—no breaks, no talking aside from Marco correcting his finger placement or tempo, practically no moving.

                By the time Miguel played the first third of the song by himself, it felt like he’d been broken from a trance. He looked up at Marco once he finished, brow furrowing as the other boy narrowed his eyes thoughtfully.

                “You know what, zapaterito?”

 “What?”

Marco half-smiled. “You might just pull this off,” he said, setting his guitar back in his case. “Keep practicing that, okay? Tomorrow we’ll go over the next part.”

                Miguel nodded, then pressed his lips together. “Hey, Marco?”

                “What?”

                “Why are you helping me?” When Marco looked up at him curiously, Miguel shrugged. “I mean, a few days ago you were saying that I’m basically ruining your life. This…well, I wasn’t really expecting this.”

                Marco let out a breath as he clamped the case shut. “Well, it _would_ be really satisfying for everyone to start thinking that you’re a fraud who can’t play to save his life,” he said quietly. “But it’s a lot less satisfying when you’re basically a _baby_ in terms of guitar playing. If you’re gonna be humiliated, you at least deserve a fair shot, right?” He shrugged. “Plus…I owe you for the ice cream. I figure keeping you from being a complete disaster in your first performance is worth that.”  

                Miguel couldn’t stop his laugh as he put his guitar in his case. “I _think_ I’m supposed to say thanks for that.”

                Marco gave him a little smile in return as he stood up. “You are,” he said. “I have a workshop with the woodwinds tomorrow, so we’ll go over the next part after dinner, okay? This room’ll be empty by then, so we can come back here.”

                Miguel nodded, getting up to follow Marco out. “So you really think I’ll have a chance of pulling this off?”

                “Not a great chance.”

“ _Qué generoso._ ”

“But…yeah, definite _a_ chance.”

~

                With Marco’s help, Miguel was flying through the solo piece. By Tuesday, he’d figured out all of it, and by Wednesday, he was able to play without Marco’s help at all. He still sat in during Wednesday’s practice, shouting out for Miguel to start the song from the beginning if he hit a wrong note and pointing out when he had his hand position wrong. About an hour into the practice, he pulled out the case beneath his seat and opened it.

                Miguel frowned curiously, faltering over the notes.

                “Do it again,” Marco said, not looking up as he fit the pieces of his clarinet together.

                “Why are you getting that out? Are we gonna do a duet?”

                “No, zapaterito, I gotta practice, too,” he said, squinting at the clarinet as he made sure it was all in place. “You’ve got the solo, so I’m in the woodwinds with the concert, and I haven’t been able to go over my part.”

                Miguel’s brow furrowed. “I could go practice back at my room.”

                “You think your two friends will tell you when you’ve messed up? No.” He shut the case without putting the mouthpiece on. “Besides, I don’t need to actually _play_. I’ll just go over finger placement.” He nodded. “So go on, again.”

                Miguel frowned, but he did start again. He glanced over at Marco, watching the way his fingers moved as his eyes stayed glued to his music.

                “Shouldn’t you be worried about…I dunno, airflow or whatever?’

                “I’ve played this for over six years now, I _think_ I know how to play it properly.” Marco shrugged. “Besides, I just have to sound as passable as everyone else. You’re the one making your great-great-grandpa proud this year, not me.”

                Miguel gave a little laugh. “Yeah, Papá Héctor would _definitely_ be proud of me cheating my way through a solo.” He thought for a moment. “Actually…he might think that was funny.” Especially since this time his life didn’t _literally_ depend on it.

                “You sound pretty sure about that,” Marco said with a laugh, then said, “Again,” when Miguel flubbed a note.

                “I, uh…well, he wrote lots of letters. I…got a feel for what kind of person he was,” he lied awkwardly. “I mean, you must have an idea of what De la Cruz would be like.” His stomach immediately curled in on itself as he realized what he said, and he braced himself to hear what a hero De la Cruz was.

                “Nope.”

                Miguel blinked. “No?”

                “I know him about as well as you do,” Marco said, glancing up at the choked noise Miguel let out. “You know why my last name’s Veracruz, right? It’s like the first thing everyone gossips about.”

                “No?”

                “Start again, you flubbed.” Marco flipped back to the first page of his music and also started his silent playing from the beginning again. “My great-great-grandmother apparently got ‘persuaded’ to not tell De la Cruz that the baby she had was his, so she put down Armando Veracruz as the father. But that didn’t stop her from _telling_ everyone he was Ernesto’s.” He sighed. “My family’s worked for years to prove we _are_ his family, but...” He shrugged. “We have no way of knowing. There’s no letters or anything; De la Cruz probably had no idea. We might not even be related.”

                “I think you are. You definitely have his same…” Ability to turn on charm? Angry reaction? Excitement for simple things? “…kind of…attitude, you know?”

                Marco let out a little laugh. “The Seize Your Moment attitude?”

                “No,” Miguel said quickly. “You don’t have that.” When Marco arched an eyebrow, he shrugged. “He…I mean, from what I saw in the videos…there was a little bit of…” _Murder_. “…of an edge to him. I don’t think you have that. Seizing your moment wouldn’t be helping me.”

                Marco laughed as he started to dissemble his clarinet. “No, I guess not. He’d probably be disappointed in me.” He suddenly looked up at Miguel, golden brown eyes wide before they went sharp. “So maybe I _should_ seize my moment.”

                Miguel blinked. “What?”

                “I mean, if I was _really_ gonna seize my moment, I’d try to completely humiliate you in front of all our fellow musicians. You know, in some sort of _challenge._ ”

                Marco frowned. “You’re not…” He jumped as Marco dropped his music folder on the ground dramatically before he stood up.

                “Miguel Rivera, I’m challenging you to a _duel_ ,” Marco announced as he smirked down at him. “With your solo piece. Let’s see who can _actually_ play it better.”

                Miguel pressed his lips together. “I...the performance is in just two days, and I…”

                “So you’re _scared._ ”

                “I’m not scared! I can play it just as well as you now!”

                “Then _prove_ it!”

                “Fine! I accept your duel!” Miguel said, getting to his feet. “And this time, you’re gonna _wish_ you could forfeit!”

                Marco smirked as he picked up his case and headed out of the room. “Tomorrow, then. Maybe this time it won’t be such a slaughter.” Over his shoulder, he called, “Loser buys the winner a paleta before his overbearing parents and manager find him on Friday!”

~

                “ _You’re crazy._ ”

                “You’re _stupid!_ ”

                “Didn’t you learn last time to just take the win?”

                “No, I didn’t,” Miguel said defiantly as he tuned his guitar, making both Javi and Gabi groan.

                “Well, you know what _I’ve_ learned during this camp?” Javi asked as he dropped down beside Miguel. “I’ve learned that _you are a stubborn idiot._ All through these past two weeks, me and Gabi have been trying our _hardest_ to make sure you don’t do anything dumb your first year, _and you keep doing dumb things_.”

                “Like what?”

                “Like how you keep picking fights with Marco!” Gabi said, dropping on Miguel’s other side. “Most people would give up.”

                “Maybe I would if I were picking fights,” Miguel hummed, making a face as he hit a wrong note. “And anyway, _he’s_ the one that challenged me.”

                Javi sighed, flopping back on the bed. “Please tell me you’re at least giving him something hard. Just tell me that much, Miguel, for my sanity’s sake.”

                Miguel paused. “Oh. That’s right.” He looked down at Javi. “I get to choose the song, don’t I?”

                “ _You agreed to a duel without_ —”

                “Basta, basta, stop _worrying,_ Javi! It’s _fine_ ,” Miguel assured him quickly. He half-smiled as an idea struck him. “In fact, I think I figured out how to win this.” He looked back down at him. “Where do we go to print out music again?”

~

                “ _Daaaaaamas y caaaaaballeros,_ let me be the first to tell you that we are in a _truly_ historical summer session here at El Conservatorio. During this camp, we are graced by not one, but _two_ duels between the Rivera and De la Cruz family lines.” Despite his grand announcement, Javi gave Miguel an irritated look amidst the cheers from the rest of the students crowded in the common room. Miguel shrugged, and Javi rolled his eyes before continuing.

                “And here in this corner, we have the challenger: _Marco Veracruz_.”

                Marco smirked at the introduction, giving a quick little chord progression. If he was bothered by the lack of cheers, it didn’t show on his face.

                “And in _this_ corner, we have our current reigning champion: _Miguel Rivera!_ ”

                The room erupted, but Miguel ignored them as he pulled out his folder of music. He looked at Marco, an eyebrow raised.

                “Before we get started, there’s something we didn’t discuss. _I_ get to choose the conditions of the duel,” he said, then dropped a stack of sheet music in front of Marco. The other boy frowned, but shrugged and picked them up.

                “I thought this’d be a good way to see how ready you are for tomorrow, but suit yourself,” he muttered as he flipped through the pages. His brow furrowed. “Vía Férrea? _En serio_?”

                Miguel smiled. “It’s our last shot to prove ourselves. Might as well make it over music we have in common. But I’m not done with my conditions.”

                Marco leaned forward, head tilted slightly. “So what are they?”

                “Well, I’ve got two. The _first_ is that you have to use your clarinet.”

                Marco rolled his eyes as he got up. “Wow, _big_ challenge.” As he walked away, the room was a-buzz. Miguel glanced over to Javi, who just shook his head with a long sigh. Once Marco returned, the room went dead silent again, and he looked up at Miguel as he opened his case.

                “So what’s the other one?” he asked before carefully putting his reed in his mouth as he assembled the clarinet.

                “Well, Vía Férrea was one of De la Cruz’s only duets. It’s…”

                “It’s supposed to sound like train tracks, yeah. Get to the point, Miguel,” Marco said shortly as he set his reed on his mouthpiece.

                “So we’re playing it _together._ ”

A whisper rippled through the room, and even Marco’s eyes widened in surprise. One girl pulled Javi down and asked, “Is that _allowed_?”

Javi shrugged. “I…I mean, there’s no rule _against_ it, right?” There was a general mumble of agreement through the room. “Yeah, so…technically it’s fine.”

Miguel nodded. “Exactly. Same rules still apply—duel to the first flubbed note—but it’s got to be _together_.” He smirked at Marco as he picked up his guitar and played a quick scale. “So unless you’re _scared_ …”

 _“Ha!_ You _wish,_ zapaterito!”

“Pues, empecemos! I’ll even let you have the melody line.”

                Marco rolled his eyes as he set the sheet music out. Then, without even counting in, he started to play. Miguel jumped in without so much as glancing at the music. The room was silent as they played, each boy adding flourishes and tricks to goad the other into flubbing. But, about a third of the way into the song, something shifted. They showed off less, and rather than trying to outdo the other, they started playing off each other instead. They were still challenging each other to keep up, but it wasn’t _competitive._

                It was just _fun._

                The room’s dead silence shifted into something more energetic, with a few laughs and good-natured cheers when each boy did something tricky, and when Marco’s clarinet finally did squeak out a wrong note, there was a groan of disappointment throughout the crowd as the song stopped. Regardless, Marco grinned as he shook his head.

                “All right, all right, looks like zapaterito wins again,” he called to everyone, then looked up at Miguel and held out his hand. “Felicidades, Miguel.”

                Miguel glanced down at Marco’s hand, then smiled as he plucked out the ugliest sounding note he could, laughing as he caught several grimaces around them. “Actually, I think it’s a draw.” He grabbed Marco’s hand and gave it a hard shake. “Guess we won’t know who the better musician is.” He raised an eyebrow. “Unless you want to go for the best three out of five?”

                Marco shook his head with a laugh, getting up and giving Miguel’s head a good-natured push as he walked by. “We got a concert tomorrow, remember? Some of us lesser músicos have to get some more practice in.”

                There was a general mumble of agreement through the room and a general shift as people started to disperse. Several students congratulated Miguel for such beautiful playing—and he saw several stopped Marco on his way back to his room to tell him the same thing. For the second time in two weeks, he saw the other boy visibly relax (before, of course, turning his charm back on. He _was_ a De la Cruz, after all.).

                Javi sank down onto the arm of Miguel’s chair, looking down at him for a moment before flicking his head.

                “ _Ay!_ What was that for?”

                “For giving me and Gabi a heart attack! We didn’t know you guys were _friends_. I thought you were gonna get eaten alive!”

Miguel scrunched his nose as he rubbed his head. “Uh, sorry?”

                “Yeah, you should be!” Gabi piped up. “We were really worried!”

Javi nodded as he crossed his arms. “You definitely did some sort of brujería, though. I think that’s the first time I’ve seen Marco actively enjoy anything.”

                Miguel laughed as he got up, slinging his guitar over his shoulder before picking up the sheet music. “Song choice is important, and that’s a fun one to play,” he said with a shrug. “Plus it’s more fun to play _with_ someone than at them.”

                Both brothers nodded, then Javi flicked Miguel’s forehead again.

                “ _Oye!_ ”

                “You need to get to bed. You’re a _soloist_ , so you gotta be on your game.”

                “All right, _mamá,”_ Miguel said with a laugh as he got to his feet and led the way back to the room. That had been really fun, probably the most fun he’d had throughout the whole camp. It was kind of a shame he had to perform alone tomorrow.

                But…what if he didn’t have to?

~

                 It was hard to describe exactly _what_ feeling Miguel was feeling as the whole camp crammed backstage just before their performance, but it was an _amazing_ one. Every now and again the curtain would slip open a tad, and a thrill ran through the entire group as they saw the performance hall slowly being filled.

                “This is no different than your last recital, Gabriel, so _focus,_ ” he overheard Javi saying behind him as Gabi took several sharp breaths. “It’s all people who want to see _you_. It’s not an audition.”

                Miguel smiled a bit, and he was about to offer his own support when an elbow bumped against his.

                “Oye, remember, if you flub your solo, _my_ pride’s on the line.”

                Miguel turned and gave a little laugh and headshake as he turned to look at Marco. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said, elbowing him back.

                Marco laughed, rubbing his arm. “Careful, I’m gonna be using that in a minute.” He stepped forward to take a peek out at the crowd through the curtains. “Good crowd. Probably because of you, but still.” He glanced back at Miguel. “You nervous?”

                Miguel made a face and shrugged. “Not really? I don’t really have anything on the line—” Much less than he did the last time he played for a crowd. “—and I like performing.”

                Marco half-smiled as he pulled back. “Good. The talent scouts should stay away, then.”

                “The what?”

                “The talent scouts? You know, people who try to sucker you into contracts because you’re the next Lang Lang or Bieber or whatever.” He shook his head. “You know what? Don’t worry about it. You’re probably the first soloist in years who’ll actually having fun up there.”

                “You didn’t have fun?”

                Marco shrugged. “I did what I was supposed to, same as every other time I perform.” He glanced back as everyone started getting into their positions. “It’s just about time, zapaterito.” He gave Miguel one last elbowing. “Muchas mierdas, Miguel.”

                “ _What?_ ”

                Marco laughed as he made his way to the woodwinds section. “It means good luck!”

                Miguel laughed a bit, then took a deep breath before making his way to the strings section. Like he’d said, he wasn’t _nervous_ , but…still. He wouldn’t mind being able to loosen up with a grito. No time for that, though; just as he got his guitar settled and tuned, the curtains pulled back, and it was time for the performance to begin.

                It took a few minutes for the initial nervousness to disperse, but once it did, Miguel let himself sink into the music. It was weirdly thrilling for his playing to meld seamlessly with everyone else’s—to be part of one big symphony instead of as a single boy on a stage with eyes all fixed on him. It was like…like a machine, all parts working together to make something beautiful.

                But then it was time for his solo.

                They’d run through what he was going to do yesterday. He’d move his chair and music stand to the center of the stage, he’d play his part, and then he’d go back. Should be simple.

                But…that would imply that Miguel had any intention of sticking to the plan.

                He moved his chair and stand, but he didn’t sit down. His heart pounded as he caught the wide-eyed stares of the instructors in the front row, and he took a deep breath as he slung his guitar strap over his shoulder.

                “Uh, hola,” he said, and he was _fairly_ sure he saw Maestra Beatriz faint. _Whoops_. He cleared his throat and looked back out at the crowd. “I…well, it says in your programs who I am, so…I’ll just get right to what I wanna say. I can’t read music.” A few whispers picked up from behind him, but he ignored them. “I mean, I can a little. But I mainly play by ear, and so there was no way for me to learn the solo I’m supposed to play. But…I had someone help me out.” He glanced back at Marco, who was looking at him like he was crazy. “And it seems really unfair that he wouldn’t get any recognition for that. So I’m not playing a solo. If I were better with sheet music, I’d’ve made it so the whole orchestra could play the replacement song, but for now…” He turned back to raise his eyebrows at Marco. “Well, this song was originally played by Héctor Rivera and Ernesto de la Cruz, so I think it’s right that their great-great-grandsons play it now, don’t you think?”

                All eyes turned to Marco, and he glanced around with wide eyes before shaking his head. Miguel’s stomach sank, but he grinned as Marco stood up and carefully made his way over to the front. There was some hesitant applause from the audience, and Miguel adjusted the music stand and gestured for Marco to use it. He mouthed “ _Estás loco_ ,” before looking down at the music on the stand. He blinked, then let out a little snort before he could stop himself.

                “En serio?”

                “Sí, en serio.”

                Marco shook his head with another little laugh, then turned on his confidence as he looked out at the crowd. “Like Miguel said, instead of ‘Carcelera,’ we’ll be playing ‘Vía Férrea’. Written by Héctor Rivera, and performed by Miguel Rivera on guitar and Marco Veracruz on clarinet.” He sent Miguel one last headshake before raising his clarinet to his mouth and starting to play.

                Unlike the night before, there was no trying to one-up each other or trying to trip the other up. This time, they automatically fell into the song, bouncing back and forth before meeting in for harmonies. If Marco was stiff at the start, it wore off quickly; he was hardly even looking at the music, instead waiting for Miguel’s next move and playing off it and even _smiling_ as he chanced a bit of improvisation.

                This was different than the other times Miguel had performed. The hall was so large and quiet that there was no way to get a read on how the audience was enjoying it. But…that didn’t matter. He wasn’t worried about instructors or talent scouts or even his family out in the crowd; he was just sharing the music he wanted to, just like he’d always wanted to.

                And, regardless of how much trouble that got him into, he figured that made him a musician—same as Marco, same as his great-great-grandfather, same as anyone else here.

                He strummed out the last bar of the song while Marco held the last note, and the song came to an end. Marco pulled his clarinet away, giving a breathless laugh as he looked up at Miguel. “Estás _loco_ ,” he mouthed again. But, considering he was wearing the widest grin Miguel had seen from him, he didn’t mean that as an insult. They both jumped at the applause that followed, and they both stared out at the crowd in surprise before Marco motioned for Miguel to bow.

                The rest of the show, of course, went on, even if it was a little more jittery after the surprise duet. And then, just like that, the camp was over.

                Miguel caught sight of a few of the maestras and profes looking very keenly for someone who was _probably_ him, and he slipped away before he could get caught to find Javi and Gabi. Before he could find them, he was nearly tackled to the floor.

                “Qué lunatico!”

                “Qué _genio!_ Everyone’s going to talk about this performance for _years!_ ”

                Miguel laughed as Javi and Gabi finally let go of him. “You don’t think it was too dramatic?”

                “Of _course_ it was! That’s why it’s so great!” Javi said excitedly, rubbing the top of Miguel’s head. “You stubborn idiot, of _course_ you’d do something like this!”

                “I think Maestra Beatriz is still passed out,” Gabi added, glancing off to the audience.

                Miguel giggled, then grinned at the two of them. “Thanks, by the way. For looking out for me throughout the camp.”

                “You’re _welcome_ , because believe us, it wasn’t easy,” Javi said. “Next year you’re getting into all your messes _without_ us.”

                “Assuming you’re allowed to come back,” Gabi added.

                They exchanged more excited talk about the performance, until finally Gabi called that he saw their parents and it was time for them to go. With a promise to keep in touch, Miguel gave each brother a tight hug before going off to find his own family.

                Once he hopped down from the stage, it was…suddenly a lot more crowded. He tried to stand up on his tiptoes to get a look around the crowd, but that hardly helped. He eventually resorted to pushing his way through. Then, with just a shout of his name to warn him, he was suddenly caught up in several pairs of arms, the “Bien hecho!” and “Felicidades!” making a terrific, congratulatory cacophony as he was hugged by at least six Riveras.

                He was able to pull himself out after a moment, breathlessly thanking everyone for coming, only to immediately be met by a hair ruffle from his papá. “Qué músico! Who knew I had such a talented boy?”

                “Oh, _hush_ , Quique, we all knew,” his mamá said, carefully balancing a happily cooing baby Socorro on her hip as she cupped Miguel’s cheek with a smile. “Did you enjoy yourself, mijo?”

                Miguel beamed. “I did! And I learned _so_ much. I…” He trailed off as he caught sight of a bright blue suit in the corner of his eye, and he glanced over to catch Marco awkwardly standing a little ways away, giving a quick nod for Miguel to come over once they made eye contact. “Uh…I’ll tell you the rest in a minute, mamá. Just…I gotta say goodbye to one of my friends.”

                He broke away from his parents and made his way over to Marco, who awkwardly stuck his hands in his pockets.

                “Uh, sorry to pull you away from your family,” he said, “but Brigida—um, my manager—she’s really set on us getting out of here. But I wanted to say…” He took a breath. “I wanted to say thanks.”

                Miguel half-smiled. “For dragging you up to perform?”

                Marco laughed. “For making a performance _fun._ I’m worried I might start liking music again after that.” He glanced back as a harried-looking woman called his name and pointed at her watch. “But, uh, yeah. So thanks, zapaterito. I’m glad we…ended up being friends.” He smiled as he held out his hand to shake. “If I need shoes, I’ll give you a call, okay?”

                Miguel looked down at Marco’s hand, then launched himself at the other boy in a hug, nearly toppling him over. Marco gasped in a breath as Miguel practically crushed his ribcage.

                “I take it back, I hate that we’re friends now!”

                “Too late!” Miguel laughed, then let Marco go with a grin. “You know, if you ever need a break from music, my abuelita’s still in the habit of yelling ‘No music!’ if she hears anything in the house. And Santa Cecilia has an _amazing_ heladería.” He shrugged. “Plus, you know, it’s kinda your hometown…just a few generations removed.”

                Marco grinned. “You make the middle of nowhere sound exciting. I’ll have to think on it.” He glanced back as Brigida called his name louder. “But for now, I gotta go.” He gave Miguel one last wave before he turned, calling over his shoulder, “And you _better_ stop sucking at sight-reading next time I see you!”

                “No promises!” Miguel called back, giving him one last wave before he turned to head back to his family. The whole ride back to Santa Cecilia would, of course, be questions about the camp and what he learned and what was that whole thing duet thing with that Veracruz boy exactly? But, before he got back to them, he stopped to bask in the last few moments of the camp.

                Here he was, now an alumni of one of the most exclusive camps at one of México’s best music conservatories. Sure, he still couldn’t sight-read to save his life, and yeah, he’d mainly gotten in by virtue of who he was related to. But still. He’d played for a (a)live audience, he’d taken lessons from the best musicians in the country, he’d met and fought and had fun with so many other kids who just _loved_ music like he did (and one who hated it). He’d learned _so, so_ much in these past two weeks.

                Miguel had called himself a musician for a while now. But, in this moment, he felt like he really _was_ one.


End file.
